Wrong Kind Of Miracle
by AlinaLotus
Summary: What's wrong is subjective, and since when has Ginny Weasley ever given a damn about what's real or not?


**This sort of came out of nowhere. Warnings are sexual situations and slight language. Ginny is underage at the time. **

Ginny is only fourteen when she meets Death, when she looks into the face of true loss and heartbreak and always that _fucking annoying _need to feel...something. She is now fifteen, but feels like she's ninety-nine, and maybe she is, and maybe this is all a nightmare, a dream, a hallucination. Because surely nobody, even Sirius sodding Black, can cheat Death a victim.

But he does, and he is here, in the flesh, his heart beating and his deep eyes staring. He is here, with her, but that can't be because she saw him fall through the Veil, saw him with her own eyes.

He is exquisite, as always. Even Azkaban couldn't cheat him of his beauty, of his high cheekbones and full lips, of his strong chin and long neck and his pale throat and eyes deep enough to drown herself in, and she thinks that is something she'd quite like to do, if only he'd let her.

But that doesn't matter anyway, because Ginny is losing her mind. But it's okay, because he is here, and it is right. She can't explain that to anybody, so she doesn't try. She doesn't try to tell Harry that Sirius is sitting right beside him at the breakfast table, she doesn't inform Hermione that Sirius sits in the bathroom while she showers because apparently, the smell of her shampoo is to die for. She doesn't tell Lupin that Sirius sits outside his bedroom door every evening, just waiting for the sun to come up and his best (remaining) friend to awaken. She keeps it to herself, because they wouldn't understand, and she's so tired and doesn't want to try to make them.

She stares at him, and he stares back at her, and she wonders what, if anything, he would to do her if she only asked him. Her heart pounds as she considers him, naked, pressed against her, his cock slipping into her, slipping out of her. She wonders if he would do that, do just that, fuck her like she's a woman, not like she's fifteen and scared and just a little girl who really has no idea about wars and Death Eaters and blood.

He never speaks, not to anyone, and Ginny knows that only she can see him. But she isn't mad, you know. No, if there's one thing she's sure of, it's her sanity. She isn't Luna, for Christ's sake.

She's sitting on the low bench below the grimy bay window in her room when he appears at the door. It's raining outside, and she hasn't bothered to light the lamps. It's perfectly haunting, to hear the wind rush through the already-dying trees in the square outside, to feel the cold condensation that's gathered on the window beneath her finger tips. And now that he's here, staring at her, probing into her eyes like he's trying to unscrew her head and crawl inside her fifteen-year-old mind, she knows why he's come. Come back, that is.

"I've been waiting for this." She says as she stands, and he nods and closes the door behind him, locking it with a wave of his hand. "For a long time. Since I was thirteen."

"That's not long at all." He says, his voice deep and thick with wanting, and Ginny's heart audibly thumps at the blessed sound, the sound she remembers and has cherished since this supposed mass-murderer showed up in Dumbledore's office at the end of her third year.

"Not to you, maybe." She shrugs, and already he is to her, his hands gripping the fabric of her sweater, pulling it over her head. She doesn't have much to offer him, but soon she's lying naked on her bed, and he's staring at her as though she's Mecca, as though she's the fucking Virgin Mary herself, like she's sacred and wondrous and that if he touches her, will she fly away?

"It might hurt," he says, and his eyes are glittering and she arches her back to taste his lips. They taste like...well, she can't exactly decide. They are salty and rough and his slight beard scratches her, but his tongue is soft and warm and exquisite and discovering her, and he's right, it does hurt, but she doesn't care because the pain of him thrusting into her--of being the first to do so--is something she'll never forget. Moans escape her lips, heat pools in her stomach, and the convulsions around Sirius Black's hard, throbbing cock is like a miracle, because she knows that if she doesn't believe in it, it won't happen, and it was never real in the first place.

Afterward, there is silence as Sirius runs his fingers through her tangled hair. "I didn't come back for you." He says. He isn't trying to hurt her, she knows, he's just stating the truth, that what has happened here was never supposed to. He came back for Harry, for Lupin, for himself.

"I know." She says, sitting up, and the moonlight that has managed to break through the clouds reflects off her pale skin. "But I believed in you, and that's why you came back. Nobody else did. But you're leaving, aren't you?"

Sirius nods, but he doesn't speak again, just pulls Ginny back into the bed and his arms are like a vice around her. It's wrong, his touches cry, it's all so wrong. She is too young, and he is dead. It was wrong, and she's mad, and it was never real to begin with.

Ginny awakes the next morning to an empty bed. But she knows that it wasn't wrong--if it was wrong, it never would have happened. And it did happen. Sirius Black returned from the dead and fucked her, fucked her like it was the only thing to do in the world, like he'd been born to fuck her.

She likes to think that, that Sirius Black was hard for her, because it gives a sense of power, of realization of just what a woman can do to a man. He came to her, right? He had a choice of others in this house--Hermione, Tonks, her mother...but he chose her, Ginny Weasley, the girl who had always believed in him and hoped for him. So she carries on that way, never forgetting him and always ready for the day when he'll appear in her doorway again, his hands trembling and his blood hot.

**As always, your feedback is appreciated. **


End file.
